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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29283207">Make your statement, face your fear</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatissoshartwheels/pseuds/thatissoshartwheels'>thatissoshartwheels</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Background Relationships, Becoming a Fear Entity Avatar (The Magnus Archives), Body Horror, F/F, F/M, Gen, Graphic Description, M/M, No Smut, Nonbinary Character, Old Friends, One Shot Collection, Original Character Death(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Season 1 Magnus Institute Archival Staff, The Buried Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), i did so much research for this the timeline is so confusing, many content warnings, no beta read we die like [spoiler] &gt;:3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 05:01:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,313</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29283207</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatissoshartwheels/pseuds/thatissoshartwheels</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Fear will invade your life one way or another, but can you face it? Can you survive?</p><p>Individual original statements in the style of season 1-4 with little to no plot significance :D</p><p>this is a big boy WIP, 1/15 statements (3k-ish words each)<br/>*CONTENT WARNINGS FOR EACH CHAPTER IN NOTES*</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Minor or Background Relationship(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Make your statement, face your fear</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>*** Adrian is not my OC, they belong to a friend from a discord server who let me write about her :) his _ is @ ***</p><p>Statement of Adrian Lockne, regarding their experience in a once-familiar tunnel near their home. Original statement given May 23rd, 2017.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>CONTENT WARNINGS:<br/>- SPOILERS UP TO EPISODE 101<br/>- d*ath/loss of friends<br/>- being crushed alive<br/>- suffocation<br/>- depression and thoughts of s****e<br/>- not eating, general bad self care<br/>- mention of mental hospitals and police<br/>- d*ath of pets</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[CLICK]</p><p> </p><p>ARCHIVIST<br/>
Statement of Adrian Lockne, regarding their experience in an abandoned tunnel under their street. Statement given May 23rd, 2017. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.</p><p> </p><p>ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)<br/>
I hope this isn’t an inconvenience, since everyone at the front desk said your head archivist was… away. I- I don’t know what that meant, the receptionist was so cagey about it… sorry. She just told me to write one and leave it for Mr. Sims to read when he returns, so here I am, I guess. Jon, I don’t know if you remember me, but it’s Addie from secondary school and in the past few months things have really gone downhill, I…just thought this institute could help me. I only found it through a ton of digging for you via social media and I suppose any other time, I would disregard such an institute as marvelous fiction, however everything that has happened maybe changed my mind. But I should start the statement before the walls start closing in, even though the panic and urge to vomit seems a bit… less… here.</p><p> </p><p>In the years since we’ve talked, I’ve become a fairly successful writer. Not to brag of course. But you did read most of my first works, and they always gripped your attention, which was essentially a compliment from young Jonny Sims. Honestly, it was your insight and friendship that kickstarted my career. It must be vastly different working in an archive now, but remember when you were a kid and would rarely read the same thing twice? Books always had to grab your attention. And so I tried to do that for you. It started with those short stories I scribbled down between classes on paper crinkled from erasing that I passed to you. Now, I have over 20 standalone novels which somehow never cover the same topic or even genre. I suppose what started as a challenge to please my best friend turned out to be a successful career, and publishers can instantly recognize my work by style rather than genre. Oh god, this is sounding creepy now. I swear I’m not stalking your job when we haven’t talked since college, but I suppose I feel the need to tell you how much our friendship meant years down the line. </p><p> </p><p>After I signed my first publishing deal in university and had the money, I moved to an older flat near the outskirts of London. There’s a great deal of alleyways surrounding the place, but they’re not bustling with shops and life like in the center of the city. Since I moved, I’ve taken to exploring them in between writing sessions to get some fresh air and inspiration. That’s where I found the tunnels. It wasn’t even that hard to find, just a few steps off the street and into a deeply slanted ditch with rubble at the bottom. I suppose I was simply the only one to see there was a semi-collapsed passageway there. I strolled by several days in a row, never brave enough to peek into the tunnel further than the tangle of weeds intertwined with the crumbling stone. </p><p> </p><p>I don’t know what was different about that day, but I finally decided to take a chance and explore the place. Armed with a torch; and I know this sounds absurd now, but I brought old wooden bedposts to give extra structure to the tunnel. So I went in. After clearing out the rubble at the entrance and wading through the bush, the passage was surprisingly clear. It extended maybe three meters back under the street before tapering to a dead end. I’m not a tall person and was able to walk to the end of the tunnel more or less comfortably. Honestly, I was surprised no one had documented this little tunnel before. It was constructed out of brick but seemed to be later patched with concrete, and I estimated it couldn’t have been more than 100 years old. Something about that underground hollow seemed comforting in its abandonment: that it was so close to the streets yet untouched by any human for years. There were no rats or critters scuttering on the cracked asphalt, so as I returned more and more to my secret tunnel, I left a cheap picnic blanket there. Hell, if a houseless person found my underground hideaway, they probably would need it more than me. But the strange thing is no one ever did, and I should have noticed earlier.</p><p> </p><p>Perhaps things got worse after my newest novel was nominated for the British Book Awards last year, which is really counter-intuitive, but believe me when I say the stress of never allowing myself to return to the same story started to weigh me down. People started to expect more out of my books, and all I could think of were recurring ideas. But that was my whole brand. I started to develop signs of depression after a series of events that would have seemed rather small, but combined with my large amounts of anxiety concerning my career, they started to crush me. It was really just a simple falling out with a writer friend that started it. The friendship had been going downhill for a while, but when he walked out of my book signing event with a final jab at my writing, it almost broke me. </p><p> </p><p>Then my cat died. I know it’s clique, but I have been living alone for years and a pet while I’m writing has always lightened up the space. Have you ever been to a pet funeral? It’s usually a quite daft affair, for the peace of mind of sobbing children or even a crazy cat lady. Still, I wanted to gain some closure from putting my cat in the ground for good. It was a somewhat cloudy afternoon in the tiny cemetery filled with colored pinwheels adorning mini etched plaques, just the gravedigger and I. The grave was already almost pre-dug, a sixty by sixty centimeter square roughly which was almost two meters deep. I was carrying a simple wooden box with my kitty inside, watching as he dug, and feeling a slight tug in my heart. Shifting the lid by a fraction to peer at my pet inside, tears started to well up in my eyes. </p><p> </p><p>I had never seen a therapist or psychiatrist before then, but dear god, I wish I looked for help earlier. Before the incident. Before sitting in my once-cozy writing space made me want to vomit. Before the crushing sadness and hopelessness. Maybe that was even the last good day, slowly lowering the lacquered box into the loose earth and methodically shoveling dirt back over it. I’ve never been a religious person, and only said a few words of remembrance for my cat before tossing a loose flower on her tiny headstone and jogging shivering back to my car. I’m not ashamed anymore to admit I cried on the way home, and didn’t stop for a while. No one else in the adjacent flats could even hear me, or at least they didn’t mention it. </p><p> </p><p>Of course there were more things. It was just a downwards tumble since I first won that damned award for my true crime bestseller. Still, that didn’t cause the incident. Maybe I’m just making this up and a decline in the quality of my writing was the real reason for losing that publishing deal, and my crippling depression caused me to become a social recluse. But I know none of those unfortunate events were supernatural; maybe unlucky but there was never anything strange.</p><p> </p><p>And all through my heartbreaks and mental decline, that damned tunnel was still there. In the earlier days of my depression, I would retreat, just to hide away and sob in that little pocket of earth. But even when the tears dried up, my condition worsened to the point where I couldn’t feel anything anymore except for that crushing feeling of sadness and despair to the point where I couldn’t pick up a pen. I missed my deadlines, broke publishing contracts, just so I could… I don’t even know, just sit in my damn flat and blankly stare at a wall. I remember it got to the point where I was starving myself only because I hadn’t bought groceries in a week. Hell, I hadn’t been outside in a week; only vegetating in my flat wearing the same dirty sweat-stained clothes. So I did what had to be done, what felt near impossible. I threw on a hoodie and stumbled to the convenience store up the street. As I saw my reflection in those bright glazed window advertisements, I could hardly recognize my ragged face. It hit me in that moment. I was really at my lowest point ever. But as I trodded my way back to my flat, my legs took an unexpected turn until I found myself standing in the vegetation at the entrance to my tunnel.</p><p> </p><p>At that point, my memory starts to get fuzzy. I must have collapsed onto the dusty floor and crawled to the back of the tunnel to eat my sorry lunch of crisps and vitamin water. But that wasn’t what happened. I was dizzy from exhaustion and malnutrition, barely noticing where I was going. I never hit the dead end where my rest spot was. I can’t say exactly how much time passed but it must have been at least 15 minutes of crawling before I snapped out of my stupor to realize walls were pressed in around me on all four sides, but I was still moving further deep into the earth. The rumble of automobiles from above that I had grown accustomed to was gone; in fact, there was no sound at all except my heavy breathing. At that point adrenaline rushed into my veins and I felt the most energized I had in days as I frantically tried to turn around and gain bearings of my surroundings. </p><p> </p><p>But the cavern walls didn’t budge. It must have been completely dark because no matter how much I looked back over my shoulder, the entrance was gone. It felt like I was crawling for hours on my hands and knees, backpack crunching against the top of the cavern, never going anywhere forward or back, but I had to keep moving. If I didn’t move, then I would be crushed from behind, but the more I crawled the tighter it got. At some point my rush of fear that had spurred me to action faded until I was left with dull terror, crying out to the unforgiving stone that would not let me escape. The only sound I heard in return was a scratching of sword on bone every time I pushed myself forward deeper into that rock. Even now my writing skills are at a standstill; my hand is shaking so terribly documenting this statement and the walls seem to be pressing in again… sorry. At some point I tried to remove the backpack I had with my keys and food I purchased, but I was squirming along nearly on my stomach so it was impossible.</p><p> </p><p>It must have been hours of regular crawling only filled with my sobs of terror and the responding bone-crunching, creaking groan of the rock. Until it actually started to crush me. I didn’t notice that the pressure of fear in my lungs was actually the tunnel’s roof pressing my backpack against my shoulders. I started screaming then, but every time I inhaled it was only tighter. So I kept moving forward, deeper into who-knows-where. The rock wore the soles of my sneaker down until my bare heels and toes pressed me forward. And that cavern was so, so dry. I thought that deep in the earth, it would be cool and damp, but my body armed the space until it was unbearably hot and sweaty. Eventually I realized there was blood seeping from cuts and scrapes all over my body; torn fingernails to bruised knees. </p><p> </p><p>I still don’t know how long I was in those tunnels. At some point I tried to count the seconds within that awful place to quell my panic, but lost count around 2,156 when my foot broke. At that point I was exhausted, despite the rock pushing me forward, and just decided to stop crawling. I immediately knew it was a terrible idea when the roof of the tunnel sharply pressed down on my left leg. When my foot couldn’t flex anymore to accommodate the tighter space, I heard an awful cracking sound and fire shot up my leg. If I stopped, I would die. So I kept moving. </p><p> </p><p>Eventually I couldn’t anymore. I felt like I had been crawling for weeks and I resigned myself to death in the bowels of the earth. Immediately the tunnel reacted, and I heard my own bones creaking and cracking as the rock suffocated me until I couldn’t cry anymore. And I thought of you. Well, not you specifically because that would be weird. But more so my books (a logical connection, I suppose) which I would never get to finish, and people who I neglected in my depression that would miss me, thinking I simply gave up and killed myself due to stress. Just as I had second thoughts about dying, there was a final crack in my ribs and I blacked out.</p><p> </p><p>The noise was alien to me, which was probably the first clue I made it out of the tunnel alive. There were far off sounds of people talking, cars passing by, and the normal bustle of London. I hesitantly cracked open my eyes and the light was almost too much to bear. I was laying there in shock for several minutes, amazed at the feel of air in my tattered lungs. As I came to my senses, I realized I was lying in an alleyway I had never been in before, but it seemed familiar. There was a dirt-packed sewer drain behind me, but I realized the street in front of me was near that convenience store. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Eventually I peeled myself off the pavement and managed to half crawl, half stumble into the store. I must have gotten some weird looks, which was understandable due to my dirt-covered, torn clothes, battered body and ratty hair. But as soon as I stepped into that convenience store, the cashier shrieked and dropped her phone, then fumbled to call the police on me.</p><p> </p><p>I don’t remember much of what happened after and most of this information was filled in by healthcare workers. The police arrived to investigate ‘a vagrant raiding a local business’, but the cashier called an ambulance as well upon seeing my condition. I was hospitalized with severe dehydration and starvation, 3 broken ribs, a fractured foot, and several infected cuts. Apparently it was quite difficult to treat, because whenever I was taken into a room or any enclosed space I would kick and scream to the best of my ability to escape, even hitting a nurse at one point. I went on and off of sedatives over the next week, and once I identified myself as Adrian Lockne and my injuries were healing, I was taken to an intensive psychiatric ward. </p><p> </p><p>I was hospitalized there for several more weeks until my fractures were stable enough that I could walk with crutches and I didn’t panic every time I was left inside alone, I was tentatively released. I still haven't gone back to the tunnel, and friends and family often stay with me overnight to watch me for my own safety. The antidepressants seem to be working and I was even able to write again. I went back to poetry, releasing a collection of verses telling the story of kids lost on an endless plain. I try not to think about the crushing weight of the Earth and what lies underneath our feet, but I still have nightmares every day. No one ever found out what happened to me, and when the nurses believed me enough to check the tunnel, they just found an ordinary tunnel. It’s been five months and I’m still undergoing testing for schizophrenia and psychosis, but they haven't figured out what’s wrong with me yet. So I longingly look at the sky everyday, and have decided to move on with my life. I don’t know… maybe the first step to processing was just leaving a statement here, where I hope your researchers won’t treat me like a crazy person. Thank you for your time, whether your institute chooses to investigate this or not.</p><p> </p><p>ARCHIVIST<br/>
Statement ends. Well, this was definitely a shock to find on my desk after getting out of Orsinov’s wax museum. Addie… I did read some of her books but hardly took notice when she stopped writing several months ago due to… all that’s been going on. I just wish I could have been there. (Sighs). I did some digging into Adrian’s statement. It's unrealistic based on her account alone, but I was able to find the police and hospital records and it all matches up. Private mental health institutions are frustratingly hard to obtain evidence from, but they released it for the (voice shaking) purpose of investigating Adrian Lockne’s disappearance about a week ago. </p><p> </p><p>According to police records, on June 4th, Addie’s mother called the police to file a missing persons report, as Adrian had not contacted her in a few days, which was concerning in their condition. When she arrived at their flat, it was empty, with no indication of where Adrian went. The officers on duty confirm this as well. A day later, the unrelated Carl McNullen reported a crushed red Volvo on a remote road leading out of London. This was later confirmed by police to be Adrian’s car. I was unable to obtain a photograph of the wreck, but it was described to be nestled in a ditch so deep that it was shielded from the road. There were no human remains found in the wreck except large stains of blood that were identified with Adrian’s DNA. Only a trail of dried blood leading off into the woods, almost indistinguishable at first by how much dirt was caked into the wet clots. No further sightings or evidence of them have been reported yet.</p><p> </p><p>	There really isn’t anything the institute can do at this point, as Addie has been officially classified as a missing person and is currently being investigated. I have a strong feeling they won’t find her. But nevertheless, I took a detour to near where their apartment was described, perhaps simply to pay my respects to a lost friend. After some aimless driving around outer London one afternoon I did not expect to find the tunnel from their statement visible from the road. I knelt there at a safe distance from that obvious domain that had taken my friend, carefully observing it. Then I saw the eyes. Obviously human and somewhat familiar: I was being examined from the dim depths of that tunnel. The figure moved slowly into the daylight, just enough so I could see. It was Addie. Or what was left of her. Their limbs were twisted into painful positions, and they were caked with dirt and clay. When she tried to open her mouth, all that came out was bloodied soil with a strangled cry. They reached out to me but were somehow blocked by the strong sunlight of the street. I ran. (sad) I… never thought that even my childhood friends would be taken as avatars. The Buried is a real nasty thing. There’s nothing we can do anymore. Your stories were truly wonderful. Goodbye Addie. Um… end recording.</p><p> </p><p>[CLICK]</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>hope yall liked this one-shot, i put a lot of work into it :D the rest will be pretty slow coming out since this is a big project but I have a lot of it planned out, however i would be willing to accept people's original characters or statement ideas to write about if i'm stuck - please dm me on discord fernz._.toez#6689</p><p>please leave a kudos or comment if this fic was ok (Please i need validation i stayed up until midnight the day before a test writing this/j)</p><p>have a nice day/night everyone and remember to drink water or do anything else to take care of yourself :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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